The Ride of a Lifetime

 The Ride of a Lifetime

(“The only thing that matters is this new life we have from God.” Galatians 6:15b)

He mentioned baptism again and
everyone who heard grew restlessly quiet.
Anxious to prove their fidelity,
scores etched their names on the cardboard notecards
and passed them on down the aisle.

He mentioned prayer with fasting again and
so many feet shuffled they wore down the boards
where they sat.
Anxious to prove their holiness,
a dozen dug in their heels and wished for
one more steak before the week began.

He mentioned worship again and
those who sang loud, sang louder. Anxious
to prove their piety,
others hid behind the hands that waved so
exuberantly and hoped God did not mind.

But there was also a gentle wind that,
barely brushing the cheeks of the assembled,
filled in the gaps of the absent,
spoke in accents discernable to the
few with
ears to hear something both
foreign and familiar, and some followed
the breezy narrow way.

But some stayed behind, wanting to
be washed by the water,
heard for their fervor,
seen for their song-styles;
truly they had their reward.

The barely audible breeze led the few
inside out, foolish and pacific,
down streets with no names,
where the residents had no houses.
Down roads without p.o. boxes,
where the sojourners had lost their fame.

Some saw the chance for sun and rain
outside the domain of wooden walls and
concrete doctrine. Some were not sure
where the wind would take them,
but mounted inside it like a basket
under a hot air balloon.

And so, all were offered the ride of a lifetime.

He mentioned that it was time
to begin again.

The Timbre of My Own Guitar

 The Timbre of My Own Guitar

(“The important thing is faith—the kind of faith that works through love.” Galatians 5:6b)

As if I did not know the timbre of
my own guitar
I laid it on its side facing the window
and hoped the sun would revive it again.
And the saxophone squeaked through the speakers.
I snuck up on the day with
clouded clarity,
the wood fairies danced outside my
field of vision.
But closer in I could see the air,
the floaters and astronauts never obscuring
my view.
My heart beat against my lungs,
and pain wrapped its hot hands around my head,
but I still heard, through the auxiliary sounds,
the afternoon approaching
like those days in May when we
went driving through the hills with the
Moody Blues
on the radio.
With calloused fingers, swollen knuckles,
and a voice crackling like a paper bag,
I threatened to sing the solitary away.
Someone once pasted
get well cards
all over my bedroom wall. Someone
once washed my feet who I never had
met before.
Someone once sat on the edge of my couch
with tears to match my own.
Someone drove across the state to loan me
an extra breath or two.
Though I spend nearly every day alone
I carry the kindnesses in my body like
memories of poppy fields and warm Spring days.
Today I may play my guitar again.

Will You Pick Me Up?

 Will You Pick Me Up?

(“Because you are God’s children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into us to call out, ‘Abba! Father!’” Galatians 4:6)

And so, a day begins the same as most days begin.
The sun rose, but I rose too late to see it.
The pains that have trapped me in a body
too old for its years
keep me pinned to my pillow too often to
count.

I do not mean to complain,
though I know how it sounds,
but how do I reclaim a decade
stolen by trips to medical centers and
uninvited spears that kept me locked
inside myself?

Papa, will you pick me up,
will you tell me how to sit on this planet
while the nerves in my brain
flash like fire? Papa, will you pause me,
put me in a parenthesis where I can explore
the mountains or the
bookshelves seventy miles away?
Papa, I don’t mean to cry so often,
and my reasons change with the turning
of the wind;
still,
(is a wish the same as a prayer?)
my feet that love to wander both
thoughts and ground
barely leave the few acres they can
walk around.

Papa, will you wake me in time
to sit around a table with beers and
friends and
guitars and
dangling ends of conversation
before the next thunderstorm sets in?

At The End of The Road

 At The End of The Road

(“Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost!” Luke 15:6b)

Why do we build the wall,
can you tell me the story again?
Why do we keep our gold inside
and everyone out
and at what cost?
Why do we lock our gates,
can you recite the code again?
Why do we twist our iron into
so many shapes
and chain them with locks?

Look down, look down the road,
the dust is stirred by the feet of returning.
The light is blurred by the whisps of
bleating songs. Live sounds. Flying sounds.
From grey to white, from infra to ultra sounds.

Wait down, wait at the end of the road,
the sun will soothe your churning eyes.
The tiny strays, (the best of days) have found
their way home. Long travels. Footprint travels.
From lost to found, sound to song travels.

Why not tear down the wall,
that is the story older than time?
Why not share our wealth
with the dizzy children
without cost?
Why not open the gates,
so princes on donkeys can enter?
Why don’t we straighten our steel eyes
toward the horizon
and wait

At the end of the road?

Like The Friend Who Slows Down

 Like The Friend Who Slows Down

(“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you. I will take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” Ezekiel 36:26)

I sleep because it is the
only escape
from the relentless hammer-on-anvil
in my head.

I crave attention,
not like a toddler or
narcissist,
but like a neighbor who longs for
the voice of a friend that extends
beyond words. A touch on the back
of the hand
would be enough.

My tears are the mud puddles left by
torrents of rain,
my breath is the only sound my body knows.
I did not avoid you because I disliked you;
I’m stuck in this corral of pain.

If you know me, you’ve seen me
change my mind
over and over again. Topics become
clearer, doctrines murkier, and people the
center of truth I’ve desired.
But my heart, or its orientation,
is unchanged. My spirit has always wanted
a home. A log cabin with a fireplace
and chili on the stove.

My spirit has always wanted to
let you stay rent-free. To hear your children
play in the background. To hear the
mustang you drove, or the
honda 450 we rode into the coastal hills
summers ago.
To hear from someone who knows,
like the friend who slows down
every time they see you.

Today my tears are more like
blood lost
through the ache of waiting and
living too far behind me. I do
not
want to live in this now where
the pain is a broken record that
sucks my attention from

Every tender love I’ve known.
Even your own, dear friend,
sweet son, loving daughter,
and,
Christ, (how I hate to admit it)
feels cold and I wish this long
winter of spikes and icicles would end
in the agnostic revelry of Spring.

Restore my heart that is weary, for
the waiting has me writing pain
where the beauty once began.

So Rural and Plain

 

So Rural and Plain

(“How many times I yearned to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you were unwilling!” Luke 13:34b)

The day was
fog and grainy photos.
There may have been a storm outside,
there may have been a crowd.
There may have been wheat in the fields,
there may have been a few who
drove on past without reviewing the
scent of new-mown grass.

The day spoke
hush and silent movies.
There may have been a flock of geese,
there may have been an eagle.
There may have been sparrows on the lawn,
there may have been rabbits
who mindfully paired up just inside
the neighbor’s fence.

The day slowed
climb and crescendo.
There may have been too much to listen to,
there may have been a marching band.
There may have been loaded picnic tables,
there may have been families
thinking the old ways were so much better
than all this fuss and nonsense.

The day stopped
clear and motionless.

While waiting for the next breath
something swept across the frequencies
of time and sound, of light and relativity--
a day to fill all days, a diorama,
a shadow-box hung on the walls of our
consciousness.
It was an invitation so rural and plain
we mostly ignored it. We went back to
our everyday, convinced that deity would
be above metaphors of poultry and feathers.

The day was…

An Epistle, a Prayer

 

An Epistle, a Prayer

(“In order to set us free from this present evil age, Christ gave himself for our sins, in obedience to the will of our God and Father.” Galatians 1:4)

Dear Jesus,
having set us free from the present evil age,
it makes me wonder why
so many of your disciples use
bullying and
sometimes billy clubs
to get your point across.

I know, Jesus,
this has caused such a poor reflection on you
that many have twisted every bit of wrath out
of any graceful act you performed. And, honestly,
I have been scorned for suggesting we pause a bit
in our
list of sins that we no longer participate in. We know
damn well
most of our inclinations did not change the
moment we decided that a rearrangement was in
order. We dined at camps where the noise level
made us slink out to the bench behind the tabernacle
just to rest. Just to rest. Just to refresh
and rewash our ears
from the assault of decibels that convinced
most everybody else
that the holyghost was soon to appear. Yes,
my tear stains are on that carpeted stage as well.

But Jesus,
the one time I stayed quietly in my pew while angry
men and
women who wore it well
dragged seatmates and cousins to their knees before
the cacophony right in front of the evangelist’s feet,
the one time I sat tight halfway back
I was accused of quenching the spirit.
(All I wanted was to peacefully meet with you,
Jesus,
without the sound and sweat and salty tears
writing my script.)

And yet I cannot argue, Jesus,
the present age has much evil,
and you, in love of humanity and
humility of private conversations,
you absorbed the violence that

The state sponsored

That

The religionists supported

and

The crowd roared in scorn

While

Disciples fled

And

The women stayed to the end.

My dear Jesus,
may your church,
the one which storms the gates of the dead,
be delivered once again
from this white-ghost addiction
to spelling out the sharper notes of
everyone else’s sin.

I Hear/Bread and Wine

 I Hear/Bread and Wine

(“Or do you not know this about yourselves: that Jesus Christ is in you.” 2 Corinthians 13:5b)

At this point it is so hard to remember
chocolate or
guitar songs with my clan
or
warm beaches with my toes in the sand.

(I am in no mood for stoic meditations. Some
days it’s so easy,
but mostly I’ve forgotten.)

I don’t mean to be grumpy or
self-indulgent or
sorry for my plight.
I just wish I got get-well cards
from someone
other than my
nurses.

My house is cozy,
my family loves me,
but I am lonely
inside these days that pass
while I breathe and
eat and
live and
sleep
under the radar.

My soul is taxed,
my brain no match for the bass drum
of days that advance without my permission.
At this point
(let me make it clear)
Christ is more than all
while I wonder why the snow falls
so late this year.

Today the hours taunt me with self-made
stories
and the sadnesses I remember.

And then I hear, yes, only faintly,
the bread and the wine and the
voice that has never minded my questions:

“Remember me.”

A Song so Incomplete

 A Song so Incomplete

(“Embarrassingly I admit that next to them we must look very weak!” 2 Corinthians 11:21a [The Message])

I wanted to dash off a quick note to tell you
how sorry I am
I never brought the hammer down
or
embarrassed your misgivings on purpose.
Was I too weak for that?

It also has been brought to my attention that,
because I refused to force certain wanderers
to return
I lost a few sheep along the way.
Was I too silent for that?

Here and now,
as I look back,
I only wish I had whispered more often,
embraced the granite wills,
and let them find their way
among the walls and mazes of
uncertainty.
I hope I refrained and left no punched holes
in the pulpit.

I wanted you to see me without my disguise,
a fool, a clown, a brow with lines of doubt
even when faith was the word. I wanted to
unmask myself
before myself
became glued too far forward.

I hope you recognize in these lines,
not some guru eating gelato,
but another ant on the hill trying to
make sense of a world
far too large to paint in a lifetime.

The few I hammered only hid their
mask beneath more greasepaint and
shoe polish. The few who hammered me
never asked where I am living now.

Come, let us design a song so
incomplete it
leaves us nothing at all
to brag about.

Piggy Banks and Walkie Talkies

 Piggy Banks and Walkie Talkies

(“Watch yourselves! Keep from wanting all kinds of things you should not have. A man’s life is not made up of things, even if he has many riches.” Luke 12:15)

He had the piggy bank since before he could remember.
Perhaps a grandparent or uncle had given it to him,
or maybe it was a premium for opening a youth bank account
at the downtown savings and loan.
All he knew, he put all his extra coins through the slot
in the pig’s ceramic back and loved the idea that one day
the piggy would be full.

It was true that kids in his neighborhood played
cops and robbers
with sticks and six-shooters made of wood.
One boy had a bb gun, but he kept it at home.

Most of them had pet dogs, mongrels, and mutts their
parents
made them keep rounded up in the back yard. If
they had allowed
the friends might have used them to herd the cattle they
pretended to rustle. His was named
Frisky.

They made a fort beneath the lowering limbs
of a neighbor’s pine tree. As dusk settled
they became dark as the shadows and could wait out
the search party sent by the day’s prepubescent sheriff.
They sent out scouts out across the street and around the block
to inform them when the den might be attacked.

Some days later he happened upon an ad in the back
of a Superman comic book. In 1966 everyone read
Batman, The Green Hornet, The Archies, and Mad Magazine.

Two army green walkie talkies: $12.99!

The perfect advantage when scouts and robbers needed
secret communication.

He went to the piggy bank, perhaps three quarters full,
and turned it over to pull out the rubber stopper in
the piggy’s stomach. But there was none.

How had he never noticed? Had he never thought of spending
his treasure on candy, or firecrackers, or cinnamon toothpicks before?

He showed the bank to his mom who laughed at his predicament.
“You have to break the bank”, she said, “like a pinata.”

Embarrassed at his lack of knowledge
he tiptoed back to his room. On the way he
grabbed a hammer from the junk drawer
and set the piggy bank on his dresser. With
a few taps dampened by a towel from the laundry
the pig split open like easter morning.

Counting his bounty (he had enough plus a dime
or two for candy), he put it all in a plastic bag
and walked downtown to shop for his walkie talkies.
And there they were, perfect, green like a jeep,
with volume dials and batteries included.
He poured the money onto the counter while
the shop owner smiled.

The next night the usual rustlers showed up
running in and out of the yards and bushes.
The thieves hurried to their hideout while the
cops started the hunt. With walkie talkie
in hand
he was ready to take the coppers down.

Their scout followed the posse across to houses
and past the apartment complex at the corner.
He pushed the button, “Cops on the move. Over.”

No one heard the call in the hideout, just the buzz
like am radio makes at night. So

The boy with the broken piggy bank
snuck out from the hideout and was duly arrested
before he could turn around.

He read the instructions the next day, the ones he
used when he tested them with his brother. And,
though the walkie talkies worked just fine in the house,
in the yard, and next door

He read, “Range, up to 200 feet.”

At 11 he was unsure how far that was. But it was too far.
He had to admit defeat. And
find another piggy bank of plastic
with a door to remove coins on
the installment plan.

An Extra Can of Soup

 

An Extra Can of Soup

(“Now He who supplies seed to the sower and supplies bread for your food will also multiply your seed sown and increase the fruits of your righteousness.” 2 Corinthians 9:10)

Please don’t follow me home only to
turn around and leave me
there alone.
I have no money, but an extra can of
soup and an apple or two. Perhaps Spring
will allow us this modest repast
so I have someone to talk to.

I don’t want to be selfish,
I don’t need the attention,
I don’t want the focus on myself,
I don’t need to lengthen your stay
beyond darkening evening.

I need someone to walk up my gravel driveway,
someone I once prayed for,
or
someone I once stayed with
past the shock, past the incongruent murmurs
of friends with no words.
Someone I delayed with
until the tears were rivers,
until the rivers were dry,
until the sentences became only sighs.

I’ve had offers, I admit. And then the trauma insists
I’ll freeze in the sun
the moment anyone
enters my door. Something keeps the words
choking in my throat. I want someone
I can cry with.

Will you do me the kindness,
(and perhaps I can find a loaf of bread)
to wait with me on days when I am tired of
being brave,
when courage is too exhausting,
when I cannot answer with faith or certainty,
when I only want to nap for an eternity.

Will you do me the kindness,
and hand me a handkerchief, please.
I’ve been waiting for seeds to be planted,
for bread to be abundant,
and a place to lay my head.

Heaven’s Candlelight

Heaven’s Candlelight

(“As a pleasing aroma I will accept you. Ezekiel 20:41a)

The stars are heaven’s candlelight,
the horizon an altar of prayer.
The grass and fields are hymns of praise,
the wind the gentle voice singing in unknown tongues.

There is nothing to contain you,
there are no walls to constrain you,
we sing our refrains and hope you interpret
our silly theologies into ballads of love.
Every doctrine has its holes,
every fabric we try to stretch
across the universe
is bound to show its imperfections viewed
so close.
There is nothing to explain you,
we will sing what we barely know.

So, take this sandy stalk, let it be the wick
you light,
the smell of sage or alfalfa wafting
from the pasture to the river. Let our
bonfires light the hills with sweetness,
our laughter the mere beginnings of holy
chants and song.

Our eyes are your candlelight,
our hands an altar of prayer.
The friends we hold and opponents we invite
shall ever bring you praise.
We breathe the spirit’s gentle voice singing
in unknown tongues.

Campfires and Timeless Tales

 Campfires and Timeless Tales

(“I will be a Father to you. You will be My sons and daughters, says the All-powerful God.” 2 Corinthians 6:18)

Entrusted with mere existence I
often
cannot keep from trying to control
time as if the hands on the clock
can be speeded up by my anxieties.
It does not pass, it flows like jet-streams
laden with weather.

On the days when I can lay my machinery
down
and simply listen to the cranking of the gears,
the creaking of the years,
the friction of time against space
I discover something far beyond the face
of things.
Far slower than the pace of things.
Far nearer, by the grace of things.
A table filled with aunts and uncles,
a yard filled with first degree cousins,
an afternoon filled with siblings who happen upon
the bbq we serve whenever the summer sneaks
up on us unaware.

Did you see your brother waiting to cross the street,
stalled on the corner because the light stays red?
Did you see your sister ragged in the corner,
breathing on the backstreets waiting for the
curfew to be lifted?

Did you see the Power. like. love.
Did you see the campfires lit on a thousand hills
with no fences around them? Did you see
the maternal love latent in the universe?
Did you see the paternal care lately calling to
all of us?

Did you stop and stay though the wind blew the
smoke in your face? Existence will not wait
while we measure the time in nitpicking packages of
hills to die on. Instead, we rely on
the stories told that take the whole night to tell

And do notice the hours slip away while we pass around
flagons of wine, crumbles of cheese,
and more bread than we need as we
hear the kindling crack.

And each new tale begins.